


Twenty Eight Minutes in Heaven, or: Three Times Derek and Stiles Hid in a Closet, and One Time They Made Out in One Instead

by thistledome



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Horror, M/M, Trapped In A Closet, only it's 3+1 things instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thistledome/pseuds/thistledome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what happens when you let the muggle best friend be the bait. Stiles will never freaking learn, will he?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Eight Minutes in Heaven, or: Three Times Derek and Stiles Hid in a Closet, and One Time They Made Out in One Instead

**Author's Note:**

> So about a week ago I ran into [this beautiful art](http://banryeo.tumblr.com/post/50746558174) and decided to write me some comment fic. And then the artist asked for more, and more I gave! And then I turned it into a real story. Hurray! And I'm sorry, this thing is mostly just madness.

_One_

As it turns out, harpies have eyes on either side of their heads like birds, so there’s this wonderful blind spot if you stand right in front of them and stay there. Unfortunately, there’s not really a way to get a harpy to look straight ahead and not look anywhere else, so Stiles, who somehow has become harpy prey, is struggling to stay out of trouble.

This is what happens when you let the muggle best friend be the bait. Stiles will never freaking learn, will he?

It gets one beady yellow eye on Stiles and pounces, swooping around Allison’s bedroom like a bug caught under a glass, only with about half the room needed to swing a cat. As big as Allison’s new bedroom might be, it’s not nearly big enough for a giant bird woman with the wing span of an albatross and freaking velociraptor claws. When it lands on her bed its talons shred through the bedding and into the mattress, feather down flying everywhere. There’s this moment that Stiles will later find gloriously funny in which the bird woman completely loses balance and flaps about, squawking, but then its enormous wings jerk out and Stiles gets brained and lands hard on his backside. He stares up at the beast for a moment, stunned, and there it is, this beautiful handful of seconds where he can’t be seen and has just enough time to catch his breath and scramble for the pathetic excuse of a knife he dropped a moment before.

Somewhere near Allison’s desk is Scott (with a hunga munga for some reason, although for starters there was nothing in the Argent’s bestiary about needing special artillery to kill a giant lady bird, and secondly, where the hell did Scott get a hunga munga?), crouching over Derek, who is passed out cold, his insides littered like bloody confetti around him. Not a nice image. Across the room near the door is Isaac, who does little to no good in helping. His Big Plan to Save the Day, apparently, is to leap forward, snarling, grab a handful of tail feathers, and then start plucking the harpy for Christmas dinner. As much as it doesn’t appreciate being deplumed, this does nothing to steer the monster from its entrée.

The entrée, just so we’re clear, is fillet of Stilinski in a pants-wetting terror reduction.

‘Scott!’ shouts Stiles, and manages to dodge a wing to the face even as he embeds the knife in the harpy’s side. ‘Little help here?’

Scott is bundling Derek into his arms, grunting under the fallen alpha’s weight. Derek hangs over Scott like a sack of potatoes, his small intestines dragging on the floor under Scott’s feet. ‘I'm trying!’ cries Scott, and uses his one free hand to claw up the harpy’s face and dig out one eye. Then he shoves Stiles towards Allison’s closet with the hand covered in eye juice. Nice.

‘Get in,’ insists Scott, throwing the closet door open. ‘Stay down.’ He waits all of half a second for Stiles to clamber inside before dumping Derek on top of him and slamming the door closed. Derek maybe loses half his bowels in the process. So that’s just lovely.

Derek is a dead weight. He also smells quite literally like shit, since there’s a gaping wound in his belly and his organs have decided to escape to the outside world and get a tan or something. Stiles finds himself crushed, scrunched into a corner of Allison’s wardrobe with Derek’s face mashed into his throat and Derek’s knees dangerously close to his balls. He gags a little at the smell and presses his face into the closest clothing source, a fuzzy sweater that smells like washing powder. It doesn't cover the gore that no doubt will underline every item of clothing Allison ever wears again, but it’s better than Stiles’ losing his stomach and adding to the grossness.

And then, of course, Derek’s body starts healing itself in earnest, and Stiles has the wonderfully unpleasant experience of feeling where Derek’s organs have landed against his person, and then feeling them being sucked back into the chasm of Derek’s abdomen. This time Stiles can’t help but gag, and he shudders – or he tries to, but Derek is still heavy. This is horrible.

After another moment of _oh Jesus, that slimy thing wrapped around my ankle is your insides_ Derek seems to come to – at least enough to snarl against Stiles’ throat so his fangs catch against the skin there. Stiles freezes underneath him, fingers clutching Derek’s sides.

Derek gasps, body shaking hard, and twists his face away. His hair grinds against Stiles’ collarbone, Stiles’ shirt dragging with it. He makes this noise, this gurgle in the back of his throat that turns into a shaky whine, and oh. Oh, god.

Stiles suddenly feels a sharp pang of sympathy cut through everything else, because he’s collapsed in a closet with a guy who’s just been gutted, and holy shit, Derek is _living through that_. Derek is living through having his digestive system torn out of him by a giant supernatural bird and then living through it healing again while conscious.

Stiles might just puke now. He can’t even begin to imagine how Derek isn’t screaming his lungs out in the pool of his own blood, slippery intestines hanging by his ankles. He grabs tight to Derek’s shirt, swallows around the lump that’s forming in his throat.

‘Shhh,’ hushes Stiles, ‘shhh, it’s okay, it’s healing.’

Derek pants wetly, drags his head up to look at Stiles. The red bleeds out of his eyes and they’re lost in the dark.

‘It’s okay,’ says Stiles, voice low and wobbling dangerously. ‘ _Holy shit_ , Derek. You’re gonna okay be. I’ve got you.’

Derek grabs a handful of Stiles’ shirt and holds on tight. He is rigid against Stiles, leaning completely against him, fingers curling and grasping and feet scrabbling. Stiles holds on right back, goes soft and pliable in response, takes the jerk of Derek’s shoulders shaking as best as he can in the tight fit. Derek wheezes into the curve where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder, and this is the worst possible time to think that Stiles might be turned on by Derek, because Derek is in so much pain he can’t even shift, but if Derek weren’t on the brink of death right now that would be stupidly hot.

There’s the sound of a battle raging outside the closet door, all snarling and screaming and the zing of Allison’s arrows pinging through the air. Stiles’ knees are shaking, though, and he’s losing feeling in one arm, so he takes it upon himself to shift them around, just a fraction, just slightly. This will probably result, he is aware, in the smearing of Derek’s blood up and down the entire contents of Allison’s wardrobe, but you know what? Sometimes you just have to make sacrifices.

It takes an elbow to the head, and Derek making a noise that forces all the air out of Stiles’ lungs in a bad, terrible, heartbreaking way, but somehow or other they wind up on the closet floor, Stiles pillowed against Allison’s clothes, Derek sort of in between his legs, the mess of his slippery organs between them, Stiles’ arms holding Derek tight.

If Derek cries through a lot of the healing then Stiles is too busy crying himself to notice, and if they’re just clinging to one another by the time the fighting outside stops then fine, judge all you like. No one says anything when Isaac finally cracks the door open, other than Allison’s horrified gasp at the blood on Stiles’ hands, down Derek’s front, his papery-pale skin.

Stiles takes three showers when he gets home, but there’s a text from Derek before he goes back for a forth that just says _thanks_.

 

_Two_

So, if Stiles remembers correctly, it’s _actually_ called a manticore, but as far as he’s concerned it’s called a _getitawayfrommenownownow_ and he would much appreciate it move itself to Guatemala or Australia or something. Because a manticore? Is the single ugliest, most terrifying creature on the face of the planet. Especially with Harris’ face.

He _knew_ Harris couldn’t just be the red herring.

(Also, can we just take a second to point out how weird it is to see a creature that’s the head of a man, the body of a lion, and the tail of a scorpion _wear glasses_? Because that’s weird. That’s really weird.)

But the point is, Harris the manticore does not live in Guatemala or Australia or even on the other side of America, which is extremely unfortunate for Stiles - and also Derek - when he chases them into the house that belonged to his last meal and then plays with them like a cat that’s trapped a moth. Stiles does not want to be a moth. Unfortunately, Derek has somehow managed a dislocated shoulder that’s not popping back into place and a nasty, oozing wound over the same shoulder blade that isn’t knitting itself back together. Which is possibly a manticore thing, but there’s not a lot of time to think about it past Derek isn’t healing and if they can’t run then maybe they should hide.

Which is how they end up in a closet in the dark that is not nearly big enough for a gangly teenager and an alpha werewolf, and Stiles ends up pressed up against Derek’s chest, clothes shoved in tight around them, and Derek somehow ends up with his hands shoved into the small of Stiles’ back.

This is not the time to get excited.

But hey, Stiles is sixteen and freaking linoleum gets him going. What’s he supposed to do when a painfully attractive person gets comfy playing Seven Minutes in Heaven to Avoid Death by Manticore with him? Not get turned on?

‘Derek?’ Stiles hisses. Derek stays uncomfortably silent against him. Stiles twitches, going through the usual list of images to fix his happy problem in his head. Finstock in a bikini. Greenberg in a bikini. Harris is a manticore and he’s about to die.

It’s not helping. Actually, the adrenaline, the excitement - or possibly mind scrambling terror - of running for his life is somehow making him more itchy and turned on and _this is insane, this is insane, this is insane_. Keep it together, Stilinski.

Derek shifts, a fraction of an inch. Stiles chuckles to himself, mortified. ‘O-okay,’ he breathes. ‘This is getting increasingly uncomfortable in a specific region -‘

Suddenly Derek’s somehow closer, is whispering into Stiles’ ear in a way that sounds like his fangs are out and any more nonsense is going to end in Stiles’ head being forcibly removed. ‘Shut up, Stiles!’ he warns sharply, voice barely loud enough that Stiles mostly feels the rush of air and translates the rest.

And then he hears it. The quiet creak of floorboards,the low, drawling growl like an engine ticking over, like the cat closing in to kill the moth. Stiles goes rigid, heart slamming hard against his chest, mouth open and eyes staring into the dark. Derek’s eyes glow like dying coals, and a second later there’s a hand pressed against his mouth, muting the way Stiles’ breath saws in and out of his lungs. Nobody moves.

Okay, so that’s a lie. His dick twitches. But Stiles can’t help it. Linoleum, remember?

-

Akin to the five stages of grief, it just so happens that there are three stages of being trapped in a tiny closet with a large alpha werewolf so as to hide from a manticore. The first is, “the Mind Numbing Terror in which Holy God There is a Manticore and it is Going to Kill Me, Quick Hide in this Closet”. The second Stiles has coined, “Awkward Boners”.

The third is mostly just boredom.

There is only so long that a teenager with attention issues can hunch in a closet pressed up against a wall of abs and a twee, moth-ridden cardigan collection before being driven utterly and totally insane. Also, there is only so long Stiles can last with Derek’s sweaty hand shoved over his mouth, and Derek’s bad hand cupping his hip, Derek’s chin hooked over his shoulder. Stiles may still be able to ignore the fact that everything is starting to taste like fabric softener and that his and Derek’s breathing is now in sync, but his back is cramping and he hasn’t heard anything since the growling stopped a good couple of minutes ago.

‘Derek?’ he attempts, but mostly it comes out as drrrrk and it only results in Derek’s eyes narrowing. He is given no choice but to lick said hand over his mouth. Derek pulls away sharply, red eyes flaring, and wipes Stiles’ drool on Stiles’ shoulder.

They may also have just returned to the Awkward Boners stage.

‘Dude,’ says Stiles, as cool air rushes to his mouth, and he kind of misses Derek’s hand, which we shall analyse later during Stiles’ Happy Time, ‘what’s going on?’

Derek cocks an eyebrow like he’s considering if Stiles has brain damage. ‘We’re hiding from Professor Harris,’ he replies in a whisper.

‘No duh,’ drawls Stiles. He tries to wiggle back a little, give himself even a fraction of space. He ends up smacking his elbow against the edge of the closet. He hears a muffled growl on the other side of the door in reply.

Derek’s good hand slaps down on Stiles’ shoulder, his whole body rigid as he listens. Stiles freezes, eyes wide. ‘It’s still out there?’ he stage whispers.

‘Obviously,’ grunts Derek. ‘What, do you think we’re playing seven minutes in heaven or something?’

If Stiles was playing seven minutes in heaven then Stiles Jr would be receiving a lot more attention than he’s currently receiving. If Stiles was playing seven minutes in heaven he wouldn’t need to have Stiles’ Happy Time tonight.

He’d probably have it anyway, but he wouldn’t _need_ it.

They lapse into silence again, Stiles now standing in an odd position with one hand smushed between their chests and the other jammed up against the closet’s wall. It’s not exactly painful, at least to start with, but after a while his body starts shaking from standing so weirdly, and then he starts twitching because he’s trying not to shake so hard. Derek just rolls his eyes, exasperated.

‘What are you doing?’ he asks, voice low.

‘Trying not to die,’ snaps Stiles.

Derek huffs like he’s the one in pain, the jerk, and starts shifting them around, guiding Stiles’ arms. He ends up back where he started, only this time his hands sit on Derek’s waist, Derek curled around him, his leg pushed between Stiles’. Stiles whimpers, and then coughs to cover it. Derek doesn’t say anything, but he’s -

Holy god.

 _Holy god_ , Derek Hale is totally participating in the Awkward Boner stage. Stiles makes another noise, kind of half way between a pterodactyl and a teenage girl that’s caught sight of Justin Bieber in the street, and Derek crowds close, snarling. The closet rattles around them, jostling, and then a moment later the manticore launches itself at the closet door and the only thing stopping Stiles from falling head over erection is Derek’s hold on him.

They stand like that for a good minute, Stiles panting from fright, and there is _no way in hell_ that Derek can’t feel Stiles’ unfortunate hard on (think of Greenberg, think of Greenberg, think of Greenberg), and it is horrible. Stiles feels jittery and hot, the air in the closet turned stifling. He also kind of feels like throwing up.

‘How long do we have to wait for?’ he whispers. With the way they’re basically cuddling he can’t see Derek’s face, and Derek can’t see his, and _thank god_ , because Stiles is dying of embarrassment and is one hundred types of turned on, because there are mutual hard ons now and that could be good but it’s more likely really, really bad. He’s actually considering walking out and offering himself to the manticore.

‘I don’t know,’ replies Derek, softly, but it’s edged in annoyance, tension.

‘Well, is Harris still out there?’ presses Stiles, a little sharper than what’s probably necessary.

‘I _don’t know_ ,’ grunts Derek. ‘I’m a little distracted.’

‘That is not my fault!’ Stiles murmurs, but he is thinking about moving, just a little bit, to try and find some friction against Derek’s thigh. When he gives into the urge and moves, Derek hisses.

‘Stop,’ he snaps in warning, fingers biting against Stiles’ side. ‘When you do that I can’t hear the -‘

The door swings open with a bang, and Stiles flies back, arms windmilling, and lands hard on the floor. For a moment he’s terrified he’s about to be swallowed whole by an angry chemistry teacher-slash-manticore, and covers his head.

But nothing happens. Stiles peeks through his fingers, confused.

‘Stilinski,’ drawls Harris in human form, half way between perturbed and downright disgusted, ‘if I knew you were planning on wasting your last minutes acting like a horny teenager, I might not have wasted the ten minutes of my life I’m now never getting back.’

‘What?’ Stiles croaks.

Harris heaves a put-upon sigh. ‘Go home,’ he snaps. ‘I’m not in the mood to kill you any more.’

‘I -’ splutters Stiles, ‘- but -‘

‘Hale,’ Harris greets shortly, blatantly ignoring Stiles, and nods towards Derek.

Derek clears his throat and then adjusts himself. Definitely back to the Awkward Boners stage.

 

_Three_

There is something fundamentally wrong about searching for clues in a strange woman’s underwear draw. Because Stiles might be looking for signs that the hipster librarian that Derek suspects is behind the town’s latest spree of supernatural killings is actually a malevolent old fairy witch with a penchant for smothering people to death in their sleep, but ultimately what he’s looking at is a draw of lingerie. He’s not totally sure if the want to touch is standard practice or toeing the line of John Hinkley Jr levels of creepy.

Derek is on the other side of the room, scanning the titles on the woman’s bookshelf. He picks out a book after a moment, an old hardback that’s falling apart at the spine, and starts flipping through like it might indicate something insidious. Possibly it does, but Stiles, as the research guy, theoretically can spot a supernatural creature at fifty paces. This woman might have a lot of stuff, but nothing so far to indicate that she turns into a wrinkly hag on a bi-weekly basis.

‘Hey, Derek?’ asks Stiles, a little hesitant.

‘Don’t,’ warns Derek without glancing up. He’s still smarting from Stiles declaring about ten minutes ago, loud and obnoxious as you like, that they’re on a hipster hag hunt. Stiles thought it was funny. Derek looked like he regretted inviting Stiles.

They don’t have a lot of time to search the place, since they don’t know how long the librarian will be gone. Stiles also isn’t totally sure what he’s looking for, since the Argent’s bestiary didn’t say a lot more than that hags are vaguely akin to fairies that like to kill you in ways that generally involve cutting off your oxygen supply. Some deal in drowning. Some are probably about autoerotic asphyxiation. But this one in particular likes to sit on its victim’s chest while they sleep and then grow heavier and heavier until their ribs cave in and their lungs get shish kebabed.

Stiles gets another couple draws down before he hits the jackpot and finds a spell kit tucked in underneath the librarian’s obnoxious t-shirt collection. It goes kitten in glasses, David Bowie’s Aladdin Sane, galaxy print, Aztec print, bottle of mountain ash, I heart moustache. Stiles pulls the shoebox out, and he recognises everything in there. Standard spell ingredients, like salt and powdered wolfsbane. ‘I’ve found something,’ he says, glancing back towards Derek.

Derek looks up, book forgotten in his hands. ‘Substantial?’

Stiles shrugs. ‘Not exactly. Nothing that screams hag, but she’s at least dabbling in spell casting of some kind. Have you found –’

He’s cut off, though, when Derek’s head snaps towards the door, his eyes flashing. Stiles stares, eyes wide, heart lurching. Derek slaps the book in his hands shut.

‘She’s back,’ he grunts, and Stiles sets to returning the kit to its original place, hidden artfully under carefully folded chambray shirts. His fingers fumble, but a second later Derek is at his side returning everything to where it belonged, and then the draw is sliding home and Derek is directing Stiles away from the fire exit they came in through.

‘What are you doing?’ Stiles hisses, neck craning towards their only escape.

‘No time,’ replies Derek, and seriously? They’re hiding in the closet again? Seriously?

There’s possibly less room to hide in this closet than the last one Derek and Stiles jammed themselves into, but Stiles smushes himself against the back wall and sucks in his stomach so Derek has a fraction more room to crowd in and shut the door. Derek is _literally_ plastered all along Stiles’ front, chest to knees, their legs tucked like Derek Stiles Derek Stiles. Derek’s mouth brushes the shell of Stiles’ ear and his hands rest on Stiles’ sides, fingers splayed out against his ribs. Stiles sucks in a breath and can’t stop the shudder that rolls down his spine.

‘Stiles,’ warns Derek in a hiss, too damn close, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. He goes rigid against Derek, licks his lips out of habit and meets Derek’s gaze in the gloom.

Fuck, he really wants to kiss Derek.

He can hear the shift of a person shuffling around the place, shoed footsteps clapping against the kitchen tiles, and then changing against the wooden boards. The hipster librarian has a “Midnight City” stuck in her head, and she’s mumbling it along, flat in places, as she wanders about. Stiles’ heart starts to drum roll as he wonders if he and Derek are going to have to stand against each other like this all night, or until she leaves again hours later, and then he glances back to Derek and Derek is staring at his mouth.

Stiles’ breathing hitches. Derek’s eyes flare. He leans in, just a little, just his head canting towards Stiles, and whispers, a hush of air, ‘Don’t make a sound.’

Stiles’ dick twitches. He flushes to his navel and watches, eyes wide, as Derek’s lips purse, and then his eyes fall shut. Stiles wishes he could see better, that he could make out Derek’s expressions. But one of his hands is pressed between them, his palm over Derek’s sternum, and he can feel Derek’s heart beat flying, which is just as good. Stiles can’t move his other arm, it’s wedged between his body and the corner of the closet, his fingers already tingling with pins and needles. Derek can move his though, drags one hand down and dips his fingers under the hem of Stiles’ shirt, grazes the patch of skin above Stiles’ jean. His cock is getting hard against Stiles’ thigh, and _Jesus_ , they’re hiding from the hipster hag, if she catches them they’re so, incredibly dead, but oh, _god_ does Stiles _want_.

He drops his head to Derek’s shoulder, forehead thudding against the line of the bone. Derek lets out a shaky breath and Stiles echoes it, rides up against Derek’s leg as best as he can without making noises. Stiles is aware that this is the most crucial moment that they shouldn’t be getting hot and bothered with one another, that starting something now is like asking to be caught, asking for trouble. He is also this close to being completely gone, so he bites down on Derek’s shoulder and tries to breathe past the way Derek’s breath catches in his throat.

‘Don’t,’ Derek breathes, ‘god, Stiles, _please_.’

And that – well, that’s just contradictory, Stiles doesn’t know if Derek is leading him on or warning him against this. Stiles lifts his head, gets a handful of Derek’s shirt with his good hand and then shoves and shoves until his other hand is free and he can dig his nails into Derek’s bicep. Derek hisses, reels forward, muffles his own noises against Stiles’ mouth.

It’s not even a kiss, really. It’s their mouths mashed together, Derek’s chapped and dry against Stiles, and Stiles jerks, barely has room to, hangs onto Derek so tight his knuckles are white, his head spins. He can’t breathe.

And then Derek freezes, draws his face away, eyes flaring red. Stiles stares up at him, terrified, suddenly, that they’ve been heard, but he hears a door shutting in the distance and Derek relaxes, fingers drawing away from Stiles. A beat passes, and then two, and then Derek tears away from Stiles, the closet door banging open, and takes off out the nearest window. Stiles lets his head smack back against the closet wall, breathing hard, his dick rock hard in his jeans, and feels heady with lust and overwhelmed with confusion and painfully aroused and also like he has just survived something enormous.

Derek isn’t waiting at the Jeep when Stiles finally manages to climb down the fire exit. If anything it’s kind of a relief because Stiles’ hard on isn’t really flagging yet and he’d like to, you know, deal with that.

He refuses point blank to be ashamed of jerking off in his car. This is the _third freaking time_ he and Derek have been thrown into dangerously close proximity to save their lives, and three, as his father likes to say, is a pattern. If it’s on – and Stiles is very prepared for it to be on, certainly – then it’s on. Like Donkey Kong.

Scott is going to wig out when he figures out Stiles is thinking about sexually assaulting Derek Hale in a closet.

...Stiles is pretty okay with that, though.

 

_Plus One_

It’s not fair.

No, really, it’s seriously, seriously not fair. It’s downright mean. And evil. Truly evil, in a kind of menace to society way. This is not how sexually assaulting Derek Hale in a closet was supposed to go.

Stiles is drunk, in the sense that he matched Scott shot for shot this evening, and Scott is a cheater cheater pumpkin eater with his fancy werewolf metabolism and so Stiles is feeling light-headed and giddy and he would be more than happy to participate in platonic pack snuggles right now, some good old fashion puppy piles and a cheery family movie to go along with it that’s so sickeningly sweet Stiles barfs rainbows.

Scott’s birthday party has somehow devolved into a nineties teen movie, complete with Kat Stratford table dancing and Cher Horowitz being seen wearing the same dress as someone else. Or, okay, no, it hasn’t, but somehow there is a game of seven minutes in heaven and a game of spin the bottle and Stiles may not have been invited to either, but he’s playing.

And that is how he ends up in a closet with Derek. The one guy that gets plastered while all his sober friends watch, and the other guy who graduated high school years ago and shouldn’t even be here, get a real job. In a closet. For seven minutes.

How is this Stiles life again?

‘Hi,’ says Stiles, and waves across at Derek. They’re trapped in the McCall hall closet, complete with light and Scott’s smelly lacrosse junk. Stiles is perched on a fold out step ladder, his feet on the next step down. ‘Wanna make out?’

Derek glares down at him. ‘Did you plan this?’ he asks, his voice sharp. He crosses his arms like it’ll shield him from Stiles’ wily man charms or something. What a baby.

Oh man, Stiles’ wittiness has flown out the window tonight, hasn’t it?

‘No,’ Stiles says, and finds himself leaning against a wall. Wow, no more alcohol for you, Stilinski. You are plastered.

‘I am aware,’ says Derek, which, _rude_ , who invited you to this conversation? Oh, and apparently Stiles is so gone he’s talking out loud. That’s not going to be good when Derek finds out –

But we’re not saying that aloud.

Derek has been avoiding Stiles for a solid week and a half, ever since the incident at the hipster hag hunt. He hasn’t looked at Stiles, hasn’t talked when they’re in the same room, and while his responsiveness via text message hasn’t changed – which is to say that Derek Hale is 100% incompetent with modern technology – it sort of feels like he’s not answering any of Stiles calls. Derek is the master incommunicado. Which would be fine, except for Stiles has developed two kinks in the process of befriending Derek, and they are: being thrown up against a wall – which is Derek’s fault – and being trapped in a closet – which is Derek’s fault. Stiles is practically cracking a semi right now.

And that is why we don’t stand up, Stiles Stilinski.

‘Please take advantage of me,’ begs Stiles, swaying in Derek’s general direction. Derek grabs him by the shoulders and holds him at arm’s length.

‘I really don’t think this is a good idea,’ replies Derek.

‘No,’ says Stiles, ‘but it is! Think about it! You, me, a closet with a working light and room to move. Think of everything we could get up to! Think of sticking your tongue down my throat!’

Derek huffs out a laugh. ‘You’re really young, Stiles.’

Stiles flaps an arm about, watches it fall back down. ‘And impressionable, and over the limit. Did I mention, take advantage of me?’

Derek seems to take a minute to consider, eyebrows furrowing. Stiles licks his lips, tastes something sweet and sticky, and watches Derek. Derek heaves a sigh.

‘That’s cheating,’ says Derek.

‘What?’

‘That thing with your mouth,’ murmurs Derek, and suddenly he’s a whole lot closer, suddenly he’s looming over Stiles, grinning, one hand wrapped around Stiles’ waist. He tastes like cheetos, which is not the most attractive, but Stiles possibly tastes a whole bunch like vodka and regret, so it could be worse.

Seriously, though, who is he kidding? No one tastes like regret. Everything is make outs!

Of course, it would be Stiles who discovers that there are three stages of making out with an alpha werewolf during a game of seven minutes in heaven. The first one is drunken admissions. The second is making out.

The third, as suspected, is called Everyone Sees Your Awkward Boners.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I have a [tumblr](http://amyinthebelljar.tumblr.com/).


End file.
